Hallowtalia
by ninjakat405
Summary: A 13 Days of Halloween Hetalia story! 13 countries, 13 urban legends, 13 chapters of horror and terror.
1. The Jersey Devil

**A/N: **I'm not dead! That's right: I'm not dead. I've just been really busy with my first set of exams and my conference race for cross-country was last week, so I was running every moment of the day I wasn't in class or studying.

It's almost Halloween! And you know all those "13 Days of Halloween" marathons? I thought about it, and why couldn't I do it as well? And with Hetalia! Oh yeah~! So, I've been researching a bunch of random urban legends, and this is a collection of all those I liked with the countries. I'm going to try to make these as creepy as I possibly can, not only because it's almost Halloween, but I want to start to try suspense/horror. I'm sorry if these don't come out like you've expected.

First up is America! Info at the bottom.

* * *

_1890_

It wasn't that dark.

The sun had barely started to set. Red fingers just starting to claw across the sky; but the bloody reaches were non-existent in the cover of the Pine Barrens. Only a few lucky streaks of dying sunlight were allowed to pass the thick, full branches of the trees. Even the breaks in the old wood proved to be an obstacle.

The lantern wasn't much use.

Even with the premature darkness. The shadows were eagerly soaking up the firelight of the glass-contained flame. The lantern thrust outward, rocks and roots still went unseen with only shadows turning to watch the man's procession through the trees.

America swore as his boot wedged itself under yet another root. He pitched forward with a hiss of frustration and shook his leg free, almost wrenching the wood out of the ground. Only the whisper of wind through the leaves accompanied his angry mutterings and goosebumps rose along pale, chilled skin. He rubbed his arms.

"Mother of Mary," the blond shrieked as a large animal took flight before him. A flailing of arms and a sweep of the lamp revealed shaking bushes and (_a giant horse head, talons, leathery wings_) an owl. America glared up at the bird. It ruffled its feathers, and the man thought he looked very proud of his scare. It hooted in triumph and he jumped again.

Why did he have to do this? he asked himself as he sidestepped a small stream. Wasn't the priest the end of this? Why did _he _of everyone in the state have to look for the thing? Yes, he loved his people, and yes he was a hero, but this was just suicide! Kids woke up, shivering and screaming, red eyes burning in the back of their minds from this. Adults shuddered just telling their children after a hard day. It wasn't something to look forward. It was something to hide from. Something to be afraid of.

A boulder rose up from a small hill, hidden by a mat of moss and rotting wood. America tumbled down the steep incline and stopped amongst a collection of more stones and glass. A closer inspection showed that the stones were bricks.

A sudden intake of breath. A clatter of the lantern as it fell from his hand. The screech of fisher cat.

The Leeds house.

What was left of it. Everything was broken: the roof caved in, the walls crumbling, windows shattered and bricks thrown about in all directions for a mile. The explosion from Mother Leeds' thirteenth child. The Devil's Son. The Je-

A growl sent a chill up America's spine and he ducked behind a collapsing wall, nails digging into the damp moss as he clambered over the stones and huddled, shaking in relative safety. The beat of wings. A hiss. A loud thump. He could feel the landing through the moist earth.

_Shit._

If he stayed really still, it wouldn't find him, right? Like a dinosaur or something. Dinosaurs were pretty interesting. That meant this monster would be pretty interesting. Yeah, pretty interesting to run away from as fast as possible before it could eat anyone!

The sound of stones tumbling over stones grated against his ears and he whimpered as the pounding footsteps echoed louder and louder. Had a tree fallen over (_it's tail swept it over, it's claws gouging earth, horns stripping leaves_)?

America's heart pounded faster, the blood roaring louder than the beast's footsteps. A shadow. A glint of light off ebony. A claw?

With a screech, America jumped out of his hiding place and darted away from the haunted site, dodging trees and roots and rocks all over again, this time without a light and with fear and panic heating his blood like lightening.

Nothing followed him. Not that he could tell. The thing could have been flying overhead, stalking him high above to rip apart his limbs in a second. He would never know. The thought made his legs pump faster.

It was back. Fine. He had done his job. Close enough to make no matter, at least. Let the people take care of the rest, now. Like last time. He was done with this "legend". The Jersey Devil was back.

* * *

**A/N: **"The Legend of the Jersey Devil"

Deborah(?) and Japhet Leeds, in 1735 had twelve children. They lived in a small house in the middle of the forest of Leeds Point, New Jersey (section of Atlantic County). They were a poor family, and she cursed the thought of another child, claiming "Let this one be the Devil." On a stormy night she gave birth to her thirteenth child. A normal baby, until it suddenly grew and changed. It killed Mrs. Leeds along with the family and destroyed the house. It's said that the Jersey Devil has the head of a horse, the wings of a bat, and a forked tail.

Information gained from a collection of my knowledge of it, _Paranormal State _and Wiki.


	2. Der Grossmann

**A/N: **No reviews? *huffs* Fine.

Germany's up now! Information at the bottom!

* * *

It was late at night. Not a time where many people would be up and about – even for a Friday – which was why Germany ran to his backdoor, an axe in hand, when he was startled awake from the frantic barking of his dogs. A woman was running back and forth in front of the thick tree line, shouting and sobbing, her husband prowling between the trunks.

Another family searching for their child. Another mother screaming for her daughter. Another father searching for the killer.

Germany sighed, patting his German Shepherd's head as it growled softly. It was another lost cause, he knew. Neither the child nor the monster would be found tonight, or any night for that matter. Families hoped and Germany mourned.

How many children had it been now, that fell into the clutches of this mysterious kidnapper? He had been whispered about – a scary story told to keep the children in line. Until the tale became a reality.

A few young men, their lovers in tow, had hiked deep into die Schwarzwald to prove the fairy tales wrong. The _Mädchen_ had been scared, seeing the pictures and listening to their cousins bravely re-tell the _Märche_n and fake sightings. The men thought themselves braver.

And then they had had come sprinting out, tears in their eyes and tremblings in their limbs, their _Lieblinge_ nowhere in sight. Gone. Taken.

Ludwig ran a hand through his mused blond hair as the father gently guided his _Frau_ back home. This couldn't keep happening. He had to get these children back; if they were still alive and whole.

He had to confront Der Großmann.

* * *

The lack of light made everything threatening.

Tree branches became spindly claws, their trunks the knees of giants. Roots were grasping fingers, pricking and grabbing at everything and open to catch you from the tricks of shifting shadows. Every misstep could twist an ankle, every turn could hide a danger, every wild call could come from the snapping jaws of a predator. Threats were whispered on the chilling breeze.

Ludwig hissed a low warning to himself. A warning not to get too carried away. A warning to remind himself which thoughts were truly his. There were no words spoken on a breath of wind. There were no roots ready to trip. Just the possibility to fall if he wasn't watching his step. It was just the monster's influence, not his own.

He shook his head. He should have brought a light.

A light would have been just wunderbar right then, he decided. Maybe the child had left footprints. God knew Der Großmann wouldn't. And it wasn't called the Black Forest for its trees.

His steps ceased and Ludwig's ears pricked up at the sound of singing. He forced his eyes to adjust to the dark, but the inky blackness stayed. Was that a spot of movement? Verdammt! He should have been more careful.

A flash of white – a skirt? A face? – the rustle of bushes – just the wind? A wave of dizziness hit him and he stuck out at whatever was in front of him. His skin connected with tree bark and splinters dug into his knuckles. Something whisked behind him, a chill ran down his spine, and he whirled around. A tall man, white skin contrasting sharply against the darkness of the night, slid behind a trunk. Ludwig darted after him.

The singing grew louder the further into the woods he ran. Despite the bright and quick melody, the words sounded ominous.

The man stopped suddenly, forcing Germany to stumble to a halt. With a pounding heart, the blond stepped out from behind the tree and-

He was gone. The man had just…disappeared. Germany turned in a circle, eye wide and breath coming in panicked gasps. Would the thing pop up again? Where had the singing come from? Was it the girl?

Germany ran a hand down his face. He was sweating, but from anxiety or the exertion, he couldn't tell. He took a step to return home, perplexed, when another wave of dizziness hit him like a wall of bricks and the world went black.

* * *

Germany snapped into a sitting position, panting, chest heaving. He was…in his bed? In his room. He quickly took in his surroundings. Yes, definitely his bedroom. How had he gotten back home?

The blond slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. Der Großmann wouldn't be found, right? Just like the children he took.

* * *

**A/N:** Translations:

_Mädchen_- girls

_Mädchen_- fairy tale

_Lieblinge- _loves

_Frau- Wife/Mrs._

If you couldn't tell, Der Großmann (the tall man) is also known as Slender Man. He was first found in like 400-something B.C or something really early like that. It was in a wood carving named Der Ritter (thought it was later shown that the picture was wrong and there were no extra limbs or long arms). Here is the history of Slender Man._  
_

Slender Man was just a story to keep the kids out of the woods and to keep them in line. Basically, Slender Man would follow any kid that walked into the woods or would stalk a child if they lied until they confessed. It wasn't until around 2009 when a prompt from a monster contest (a creepypasta a think..?) when Slendy started getting REALLY popular. This is where he was blown out of proportion. But it's a still awesome urban legend, right? Even if it is fake.


	3. The Pooka

**A/N: **Okay, I'm done with the forests now. Yay! No more repetition, right?

Info at ze bottom!

* * *

Damn the Irish militia. Damn the Irish. Bullocks, damn the bloody country herself!

England tripped over yet another imaginary obstacle, conjured by his drunkenness. He caught himself before he could slide across the wet gravel road, but the bottle flew from his hand and smashed against the earth. Alcohol dripped through the stones, mixing with puddles of the morning's rain.

He watched the dark liquor, rage and sorrow fighting for dominance on his face. There went his minimal fun. There went his small escape. Into the ground like it wasn't his only hope for the week, the only balm for the fire raging in his gut, the only light in the Hell his life had been turned into.

England has lost again. He – the United Kingdom of Great Britain – had been defeated by those…those barbarians! They couldn't control their own people; how could they even call themselves a country? They were animals, not people. And he lost to them! Again! Trying to show how much better, how much easier, life would be like under his rule. Those bloody numpties. The Irish could get what was coming to them sooner or later.

"Maybe if you talk to them."

England scowled. "Because these gits know how to talk properly, Mint." He tried to wave off the flying green rabbit, but his hand was outstretched too far to the left. His friend frowned. "They don't deserve talk. They don't bloody well deserve me."

The green bunny floated away with a shake of its head. England muttered another round of curses and grievances towards his sister before starting off down the road again. He tipped several times away from the somewhat prominent road and managed to fall into a puddle. With a hiss, he wiped a glob of mud from his shirt.

"It looks like you could use some help, sir."

England turned to yank off the blades of grass sticking to his bum. "It's so nice to know at least someone in this God forsaken country try to act like something that resembles a human being," he said, tripping over the words. He glanced up from taking care of the rip in his sleeve. He blinked. "Uni? Is that you?"

It looked something like his unicorn friend. It was a horse and it was talking. But it was hard to tell the size and shape from the burring around the edges of his visions. Was there two of him? Where was the horn? It had to be there somewhere. The color looked off, but it could have been that it was starting to get dark.

Uni seemed to smile. "You can say we know each other. Would you like help?"

"Of course, you git. What took you so long?" Uni shook tossed his head and England began to climb up. As soon as he was settled, the horse took off.

It felt like the wind was going to tear his skin from his bones. Was his friend even touching the ground? Trees were practically jumping out of the way for them, the wind scratching at his eyes to make them water, his clothes snapping back. Mountains felt like tiny hills under the giant hooves.

England scrambled for some kind of purchase before he could fly off. "U-Uni, what are you doing?" A massive head was turned and, instead of soft brown eyes, hard red orbs glowered at him. "Y-you're not Uni." He hiccupped, and it had nothing to do with his drinks.

The monster laughed. "No, I'm not. And you're not here to help."

They were nearing the ocean. The sound of waves pounding against the stone cliffs was thunderous, but England didn't dare try to cover his ears in fear the wind would push him off his mount. The thought of the beat jumping over the cliffs was just as bad a thought, though.

The horse never jumped though. Only he went flying. As soon as the grass turned to rocky gravel, the horse stopped, rearing, and the momentum sent England sailing forward, out across the black depths.

The dawn was just coming over the skies when he opened his eyes again, on the edge of the strand. England stood up and wiped as much sand as possible from his person. "Damn the Irish. Damn her! And damn her bloody Pooka!"

* * *

**A/N: **The Pooka/Puka/Phuka/whatever way you want to spell it. It's an Irish mythological creature that likes to adopt the form of a giant black horse with red eyes. Other people say it likes to take the shape of a goat and a dog. The Pooka liked to play tricks on drunkards by offering them a ride and then tossing them off the edge of a cliff and into the ocean.

There's a story a read (Irish Mythology Stories) that talks about a king who tricked the Pooka with reins made of a unicorn's tail and some other mythological items and made a promise that the Pooka could live, as long it brought its riders back to the place where he picked them up.


	4. La Corriveau

_1849_

Canada sighed. His breath frosted in the early morning air in a puff of white, quickly snatched up by a chilling breeze. He tightened his coat closer to him and shivered.

Why, America? Canada asked himself. It was just a silly cage thing, anyway. Why would he want something to do with it? Especially since it was a British a device. No one used it (he shivered again, more from the memories of that evil torture then from the cold this time). No one wanted to go near ot. And for good reason. So why take it?

And why did he have to go find it? Oh, because he never stood up for himself, that was it. He should really remember to ask his brother about that – no, wait. He was mad at America; he didn't want to have a family chat. A stern one.

Or, just a small warning…yeah, a warning to give it back.

The cover of dying leaves masked the water accumulating in the pits and hidden holes in the earth, the crisp sound of them snapping and breaking covering the sloshing of water, so when Canada next placed his foot, he had no idea that his leg was about to be swallowed up in a fast moving stream.

With a yelp, he yanked his leg from the frigid waters. He shook his pants out to best of his ability, staring sadly at his soaked clothes. What a bother…first his possessions were ripped from him, and then frostbite. What could the talk with his brother possibly bring? His stomach twisted with dread. Hopefully America wasn't chopping wood like last time…

There was a snapping of a twig and Canada whirled around. A swirl of leaves from a sudden gust of wind was the only sign of movement. A chill went down his spine as he took in his surroundings. Where exactly was he? He had to be somewhere near the border between the two countries, right?

A howl of wind – it didn't really sound like wind, did it? – made his heart pound. He bit his lower lip. How could he get lost? It was practically his backyard. But something felt off. Something…dark?

_"Mathieu." _

Canada jumped. "E-eh?" There was nothing. Not even a bird. A slight movement of a tangle of dark grass caught his eye. He let out a breath. He was just paranoid. Nothing else.

Just as he was about to turn around, something hard and cold latched onto his shoulders. With a shriek, his hands flew to the thing, scrabbling at whatever had taken a hold of him. It felt wet and its coldness was seeping through his layers.

_"Mathieu."_

Another blood-curdling cry escaped his mouth as a milky-white face materialized in front of him. Her hair, the same color of the dark grass near the water's edge swirled about her face in a ghostly breeze.

_"Take me across the river, Mathieu. I cannot cross the St. Lawrence river. Take across, Mathieu."_ Canada tried to voice his protests, but bony fingers were crawling from his shoulders to his neck. They closed about the trembling skin as he struggled to keep breathing and began to tighten, began to squeeze. Began to kill.

Canada twisted, desperately trying to get the pressure off him. He ripped at the fingers, digging into the skin so hard he could feel them against his windpipe, so close – so close to killing him. His own fingers met the woman's and he tore at them. They ripped from their joints like corn from their stalks and he gave a muffled sob at each crack of the bone. The ghost hissed.

The last fingers off – still there, still not breathing – he ripped at the arms, the wrists, the clammy skin. All at once, the pressure was gone and Canada was on his knees, clothes soaking up the water of the river, gasping for air. In a flash, he was back on his feet, crashing through the woods, anywhere. Just away.

"Hey, hey, where are you going so fast?"

Canada stumbled to a halt, chest heaving and sweat rolling down his face. Wild, lavender eyes met big blue orbs. "A-America?"

The blond waved. "You were late. I thought I would find you, but…what's wrong?"

Canada glanced over his shoulder, a hand rubbing at his bruised throat. "Y-you can keep that thing," he whispered hoarsely. "I don't want it back."

American blinked as his brother headed back into the woods. It wasn't until his shadow had been swallowed up by the darker silhouettes of the trees that he took a step forward. "Keep what?"

* * *

**A/N: **Background-  
Marie-Josephte Corriveau, at the age of 16, married a man by the name of Charles Bouchard in 1749. She was very happy with her husband and three children, until she found someone else: Louis Dodier. So, what did she do? She killed her husband. Or, so, that's what the rumors were. After a trail (by the British, mind you), they condemned Marie-Josepthe's father, Joseph Corriveau to hang, and Marie as an accomplice. He claimed that it was daughter that killed Charles, and, after a second trial, Marie-Josephte was sentenced to a public hanging for the murder of her husband (she killed him with two blows of a hatchet while he was sleeping).

The British stuck her in an iron gibbet at the cross-roads of (now) Rue St-Joseph and the Boulevard de l'Entente for over a month, where she was then buried at the church of St-Joseph-de-la-Pointe-Lévy. In 1849, the gibbet was stolen from the church and put on display at the Boston Museum where the card reads "From Quebec".

The Legend-

After her death, Corriveau was said to wake up, her hands reaching out and calling to any passerby's. Scared, the people buried her. But it only got worse. She would climb out from her grave and walk along the St. Lawrence river. One day, a man named Dube was walking home. He passed under the spot where Marie had hanged and saw a bunch of demonic figures dance around a blue light across the river. And then a pair of hand tightened around his throat from behind and she whispered to him, "Take me across the river, Dube."

Of course, he wasn't stupid, so he ripped the arms from the ghost and fainted. When he woke up, he was by the roadside, his wife sobbing over him.

Canada! Really? And I thought we had scary stuff...Anyone want to see Russia next?


	5. Poludnitsa

**A/N: **Hey hey hey! This one isn't that scary..'cause, you know, Russia isn't really scared of anything.

Response to Guest who said Beowulf: Um...are you saying Beowulf itself isn't scary? Because Beowulf is Anglo-Saxon not Russian...and Beowulf didn't even kill a dragon. Wiglaf did. And Beowulf is an epic poem, not an urban legend. Yay! Fact time!

* * *

Russia found that the house was silent. Very silent. The windows were open, but no breeze stirred the thin curtains and made them whisper against the walls. The dishes were already stacked since the morning. Everything in the kitchen had been cleaned off and put away.

But it wasn't the sad or eerie quiet that pervaded the house from time to time, when his little charges had run off screaming, only to return a week later, covered in mud and bruises. It wasn't the chilly silence that sometimes seeped into every room, so cold that no fire could push it back, when he was angry and drunk. It wasn't the frightened stillness that suggested a certain woman hadn't entered the building and was listening for any sounds of movement.

It was an unreasonably warm, sunny day. It filled the house and brightened every corner. There were signs of life, dropped or grown cold from time, but that was because the bringers of their momentary life were outside.

Russia stopped by an open window and peered outside. There they were – all three of them hacking away at the crops planted just outside the house. For once, something happy was growing within the walls of his house.

It seemed like the Baltics had been out for much longer than they should have, most likely enjoying the relative happiness and warmth of the day. Russia had managed to get most of his work done, and was just about to fetch his charges before they discussed another plan of escape when the littlest one burst into the house.

Latvia's face was red from the sun and from the effort of trying to hold back enough tears in order to speak. His normal slight tremblings were forceful shuddered and his eyes widened when they landed on Russia's advancing figure.

"Where are the others?"

"S-Sir, t-t-they're out t-there, but-"

His eyes narrowed and Latvia flinched. "Da? Go on."

The boy swallowed and wrung his hands nervously. "S-s-someone else…"

"Someone else?" Latvia squeaked and darted off as Russia's eyes flickered to the door. Someone else? He grabbed his pipe on his way out to the farm.

* * *

Nothing looked disturbed. The tools were still hanging on the walls in the large shed, there were no broken patches in the fields of growing food, and there were no sounds of talking.

It could have been silent because the other Baltics were hesitant to speak. Or, well, Lithuania was too afraid to speak. When Russia finally stepped out of a wide plot of corn, there was no sign of Estonia. But the brunette was frozen in place – not even his fingers twitched – his eyes locked on a girl.

A girl? What was frightening about that? She was thin and small, just emerging into adulthood. With her long blonde hair and white dress, she looked nothing but the image of innocence. Russia smirked. Was Lithuania nervous of speaking with a young lady?

"Lithuania, who is this?"

His eyes widened and his head snapped to the side to watch him, face going white. The girls turned to face the large country and smiled. "Maybe you can answer my question?"

"I think you should be answering my question first. Who are you and why are you on my property?"

Lithuania shook his head, slightly, jerkily. He took a step back from the woman, testing this new-found distraction. He turned and bolted the moment she took a step closer to Russia.

Russia watched his charge go, frowning, and turned his attention back to the trespasser. "I am waiting. Who are you and why are you here?" Her hand twitched. She took another step closer. "I will have to remove you. I would like you to be aware of where I drop you off, but if I must knock you unconscious, I shall and will without hesitation, da?" Another step closer. Russia made sure his pipe would be easily withdrawn.

The girl launched herself at him, yanking out a pair of shears as she leapt. Russia pulled out his pipe and knocked her to the side. She tumbled to the ground and jumped to her feet. Her once clear, glowing face was wrinkled and worn. Her stature now bent and withering. But her strength was not as failing as her hair when she threw the large scissors at his head. Russia ducked out of the way, ready to defend himself again, when a forceful wind threw dust into his face, stinging his eyes and clogging his nose and eyes.

Growling, he wiped the dirt from his eyes and turned to find the hag, only to see his field empty of people. With a scowl, he returned his pipe to his coat pocket and stalked back to his house. He would show her.

* * *

**A/N: **Poludnitsa (Lady Midday) is a Slavic myth. She only appears to farmers working on the fields at noontime, causing heatstroke, neck pains, and even insanity. Being a monstrous female entity, she wears a white dress. When she appears, she carries a scythe or a pair of shears and will ask the workers questions. If they fail to answer or change the subject, he will try to kill them with these objects.


	6. Nuppeppo

Japan carefully packed everything back into his briefcase and straightened his tie. Just because the world meeting had ended late didn't mean he had to hurry. Everyone else had quickly packed up and jumped out the door, most likely wanting to eat or get ready for bed. But Japan found that the older he got the less sleep he needed and food was not that hard to cook. He could take his time.

Plus, rushing usually made everything even more confusing and tangled. How would America ever find his phone when he just threw it in his briefcase? His laptop was most likely crushing the poor electronic it was sitting on. All his papers were haphazardly stacked and put away; would he know what he was going to say tomorrow with his notes like that?

Then again, everything America said was about fictional heroes and whatnot. Japan was sure he never knew what was coming out of that large mouth of his? He sighed. How did he manage to get so close to someone like that again?

It was later than he expected. He thought the meeting had ended sometime after five, but the sun was already gone. The only light came from the dull ruddy glow of orange streetlamps.

But, this was Tokyo. Just because the sun had gone down didn't mean the people had to shut themselves in the dark too. As parents guided their rowdy children back home for the night, teenagers spilled into the streets. The sounds of the day had quieted, and the laughing of friends, the beeping of traffic, and the buzzing of electricity took over in the night.

It all added up to be one giant cacophony for Japan. The bright neon signs burned his eyes after all the Powerpoints and papers. Every shout, every horn, a brick in the wall of sound assaulted him after the shouting and cursing and fighting of the day. Maybe the back routes would be a better way to travel tonight.

Japan turned away from the main road of the city and headed for an alley. It was dark and silent, a warning, but it was the quickest way out of the mass of people.

He had expected a man or two sitting against the buildings stacking high into the sky, either seeking a refuge for the night or a naïve teenager to trick with drugs. He had expected at least a drunken man. What he did not expect was a pile of white flesh to bob around his feet.

He smelled it before he saw it. Covering his nose and mouth with his hand, he had half a mind of just turn around and brave the city. He was about to, too, when something grabbed ahold of his shoe.

Japan gagged as the smell of rotting garbage – of rotting _flesh _– hit him and he glanced down. A small yelp escaped him as he spotted the short white blob. Gooey fingers were wrapped around his ankle and it's featureless face stared up at him.

He was about to kick it, shake it out, hit it – anything – until he realized what it was. He took a breath of relatively clean air and bent down.

"What are you doing over here?" he asked. "It is a bit late to be out, do you not think so?" He chuckled to himself. "Then again, I am a bit late to be out as well." His stomach rolled as he took another breath and he tried to pry the grasping fingers off of him.

When the blob was finally off, he took a step back and gasped for cleaner, fresher air. It was a nice thought that the little things were solitary.

It came a bit closer and Japan matched it, keeping as far away from it as he could. "I cannot stay. And you do not want to come out of there, do you? We both do not want you to be eaten." With that, Japan turned on his heel and walked quickly away. He made sure to stay close to the lights.

* * *

**A/N: **I feel like no matter what legend or creature Japan finds, he would still act all calm and friendly towards it.

This little white blob is called a Nuppeppo. Sound familiar? It should! You know those white guys from the Hetalia movie? These are the little guys those faceless aliens were based of off!

The Nuppeppo are little fleshy lumps (some say of rotting flesh, which could explain the smell...) that hide out in dark alleys in the middle of the night. They smell really REALLY bad. Like, worse than rotting garbage. They're only about a foot tall and don't have many features except for smaller lumps that could be fingers and feet. They're solitary and they actually aren't harmful. They're supposedly really friendly. Not that I would know. And they seemed pretty angry in Paint it White...


	7. Berserker

**A/N: **Sorry for the wait, guys! I had a bunch of stuff to do, but it's the weekend! Here's a bit of DenNor for you to enjoy for your patience.

* * *

Norway could feel the wards in his room go off. He could physically _feel _them. It wasn't the normal ringing in his ears whenever someone dared to think about going into his bedroom, but the pounding of his head from such an abundance of energy. Which could only mean one thing.

"Hey, Norge!"

"Go away, Denmark," Norway said, not even bothering to turn from his desk and give the intruder his attention.

"But Norge," the blond whined. He could practically hear the frown in the Dane's words. "This is important this time!"

"You better not have gotten another one of your treasures stuck down the drain again." The last on had been awful. Finland had gotten his arm stuck in the sink and, after ripping apart the pipes and making sure the country was okay, Sweden had broken Denmark's arm. For the next week, the man had whined and complained about his arm and how awful the Swede had been.

"No, not this time. But I found something really coo-"

"I will vaporize the next spider you show me."

"It's not a spider!" Denmark jumped about the room, Norway wincing at every step as he imagined everything in flames and broken, before squatting down at the Norwegian's side. "I didn't do anything bad this time. Not that I ever do anything bad. You guys just blame me for everything and make it worse."

Norway hit him with a dictionary.

Grumbling, Denmark rubbed the growing red spot on his forehead. "Chill out, will you? I just one of my old Viking ships, that's all, alright? I wanted to check it out and I was wondering if you wanted to come with me."

"Why, under any circumstances, would I want to spend any length of time with you in a broken, decaying, and dangerous place that has you written all over it, much less of my own free will?"

"Talk about the cold shoulder. I think you have ice growing in your hair." Nor way frowned. Or, his lips moved even further down his face then they always were. "Are you coming or not?"

"You didn't ask Sweden, did you?"

"Well, duh. He broke my arm the last time I said something."

"You made him angry."

"You have more expression than that wall! How was I supposed to know he was angry?"

Norway shook his head and stood up. "I'm only coming to drag your body back before it's eaten by bears."

* * *

Denmark folded his arms close against himself and tucked his chin into the hem of his jacket. He shivered. "I don't remember the boat being so far away."

Norway's narrowed eyes turned to watch the Dane. "Are you suggesting that we're lost?"

"No! I'm just saying that I thought it would be quicker than this." He stood up straighter and scanned the flat land with pursed lips. His eyes brightened as they fell upon the foggy features of a mountain. "There! I know where we are now. It's right next to that mountain. Don't worry, Norge. I got this."

Norway rolled his eyes and followed with a sigh.

"It's one of the best things ever. I forgot how awesome I could be," Denmark gloated as they continued. "You couldn't have made anything better, N- wait a minute."

"If you say that this mountain doesn't look right, so help me, Denmark," Norway muttered.

"I already told you that I know where I'm going! It just looked like the mountain moved. So stupid, isn't it?"

Norway was about to agree, to say that he was in fact stupid and that he was sorry for ever coming on this trip with an idiot such as the Dane, when he hesitated. The mountain moving? The closer he looked, he did notice that the mountain looked…strange. It was sloped and curvy, not steep and rough. Something just didn't feel right.

"We should go."

"But we're not even there yet," the blond whined. "I wanted to show you how awesome I am." Norway shot him a glare. "What? Does the mountain scare you?" He laughed. "Are you afraid of heights, Norge? I'll protect you! You don't have to worry-"

"Denmark. Shut up and run."

"Why-"

Behind up, the once solid-looking stone rumbled and shifted. Snow and boulders rained down on the two and the giant beast unfolded from its resting shape. Norway wasn't surprised – not that he was ever anything besides annoyed. As soon as Denmark had said it had looked like it was moving, he knew. Denmark on the other hand, was screaming and shaking.

"I told you," the shorter nation scoffed.

"W-what is that," the other stammered, frozen in place even as Norway walked away.

"A Berserker."

Denmark ran.

"Don't let it eat me! It's going to step on me and I'm going to go splat like a bug! Oh my God it's so big and scary!" The rest of his hysterical shrieking was lost to the roar of the giant monster.

Norway turned back to face the giant. With another booming shout, it swung a giant hammer into the ground. Dirt and snow filled the chilly afternoon air and a bear came crashing through the mixed mist. Norway watched it follow the stumbling footprints of the other Nordic.

"I should tell the others that Denmark was eaten by bears. I wonder if that would make Sweden smile." Norway began the walk home.

* * *

**A/N:** A Berserker was a Nordic warrior that fought with an almost inhuman fury. Hence the name Berserker (to go berserk) and usually wore wolf or bear pelts to battle. Or nothing at all. The translation got a little messed up since the Nordic "ber" usually means "bare". Anyway, they became kind of like a legend, and all legends get a little twisted. Some people say they can transform into wolves, bears, and boars, and some people say they're giants.

It was actually really hard to find something about any of the Nordics. There aren't any tales or creatures so much as lessons and the like. This is one of the few actually creatures.


End file.
